les
One of Sherlock Holmes’s defects—if, indeed, one may
call it a defect—was that he was exceedingly loath to
communicate his full plans to any other person until the
instant of their fulfilment. Partly it came no doubt from his
own masterful nature, which loved to dominate and
surprise those who were around him. Partly also from his
professional caution, which urged him never to take any
chances. The result, however, was very trying for those
who were acting as his agents and assistants. I had often
suffered under it, but never more so than during that long
drive in the darkness. The great ordeal was in front of us;
at last we were about to make our final effort, and yet
Holmes had said nothing, and I could only surmise what
his course of action would be. My nerves thrilled with
anticipation when at last the cold wind upon our faces and
the dark, void spaces on either side of the narrow road
told me that we were back upon the moor once again.
Every stride of the horses and every turn of the wheels was
taking us nearer to our supreme adventure.
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Our conversation was hampered by the presence of the
driver of the hired wagonette, so that we were forced to
talk of trivial matters when our nerves were tense with
emotion and anticipation. It was a relief to me, after that
unnatural restraint, when we at last passed Frankland’s
house and knew that we were drawing near to the Hall
and to the scene of action. We did not drive up to the
door but got down near the gate of the avenue. The
wagonette was paid off and ordered to return to Coombe
Tracey forthwith, while we started to walk to Merripit
House.
‘Are you armed, Lestrade?’
The little detective smiled.
‘As long as I have my trousers I have a hip-pocket, and
as long as I have my hip-pocket I have something in it.’
‘Good! My friend and I are also ready for emergencies.’
‘You’re mighty close about this affair, Mr. Holmes.
What’s the game now?’
‘A waiting game.’
‘My word, it does not seem a very cheerful place,’ said
the detective with a shiver, glancing round him at the
gloomy slopes of the hill and at the huge lake of fog which
lay over the Grimpen Mire. ‘I see the lights of a house
ahead of us.’
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‘That is Merripit House and the end of our journey. I
must request you to walk on tiptoe and not to talk above a
whisper.’
We moved cautiously along the track as if we were
bound for the house, but Holmes halted us when we were
about two hundred yards from it.
‘This will do,’ said he. ‘These rocks upon the right
make an admirable screen.’
‘We are to wait here?’
‘Yes, we shall make our little ambush here. Get into
this hollow, Lestrade. You have been inside the house,
have you not, Watson? Can you tell the position of the
rooms? What are those latticed windows at this end?’
‘I think they are the kitchen windows.’
‘And the one beyond, which shines so brightly?’
‘That is certainly the dining-room.’
‘The blinds are up. You know the lie of the land best.
Creep forward quietly and see what they are doing—but
for heaven’s sake don’t let them know that they are
watched!’
I tiptoed down the path and stooped behind the low
wall which surrounded the stunted orchard. Creeping in
its shadow I reached a point whence I could look straight
through the uncurtained window.
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There were only two men in the room, Sir Henry and
Stapleton. They sat with their profiles towards me on
either side of the round table. Both of them were smoking
cigars, and coffee and wine were in front of them.
Stapleton was talking with animation, but the baronet
looked pale and distrait. Perhaps the thought of that lonely
walk across the ill-omened moor was weighing heavily
upon his mind.
As I watched them Stapleton rose and left the room,
while Sir Henry filled his glass again and leaned back in his
chair, puffing at his cigar. I heard the creak of a door and
the crisp sound of boots upon gravel. The steps passed
along the path on the other side of the wall under which I
crouched. Looking over, I saw the naturalist pause at the
door of an out-house in the corner of the orchard. A key
turned in a lock, and as he passed in there was a curious
scuffling noise from within. He was only a minute or so
inside, and then I heard the key turn once more and he
passed me and re-entered the house. I saw him rejoin his
guest, and I crept quietly back to where my companions
were waiting to tell them what I had seen.
‘You say, Watson, that the lady is not there?’ Holmes
asked, when I had finished my report.
‘No.’
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‘Where can she be, then, since there is no light in any
other room except the kitchen?’
‘I cannot think where she is.’
I have said that over the great Grimpen Mire there
hung a dense, white fog. It was drifting slowly in our
direction, and banked itself up l